Storm in Heaven
by SydnieWren
Summary: Ichigo is restless with the summer heat and persistent dreams. Urahara offers him more than friendly advice. Anal, light oral, virgin Ichigo.


**Hey fellas, back again. I'm enjoying dabbling in different Bleach pairings. I hope you guys have a good time with this one; it was fun to write!**

**As always, please please please review! You've got no idea how helpful your reviews are!**

**Disclaimer: Own nothing.**

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It was one of those impossibly sultry summer nights that brought the world alive. Crickets chirped madly in the grass, and every flower was in full bloom, expressing their full aroma in the steam of the night. At the very first blush of evening clouds had rolled in, thickening the breeze and pressing moisture into the supple leaves of the trees. Somehow the heat seeped into the house; the floorboards felt slightly wet, the condensation gathered on the walls.

Ichigo stripped his bed of the comforter and slipped nude beneath the top sheet, sliding his arms beneath his pillow. The fan seemed to move incredibly slow, stirring the humidity about but barely cooling him.

He turned onto his side, stuffed a pillow between his legs. Almost too sensitive - almost too much. He moved onto his stomach, spread his arms out wide, over the sides of the bed. He returned to his back, flipped his pillow over to the cool side. When sweat began to form in the arch of his back, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and strode to the window, practically throwing it open.

Outside the world was stirring, fireflies flashing brightly against the black of the storm clouds just barely hovering, murmuring hints of thunder...

He flung himself back into bed and spread himself over it, limbs splayed open, chest heaving. It was too hot, too oppressively wet, it felt as though a constant breath over him.

And there were those thoughts, reoccurring, indecipherable.

Their content was always just out of reach - a vague suggestion of flesh, a half-remembered dream of moisture and heat, a mirage of panting that would not let him sleep. On many nights he had awoken to find himself trembling in the aftershocks of orgasm, his own seed spilled in his boxers - dreams of unkempt blond hair and well practiced hands just dissipating.

He jolted from his doze when the first crash of thunder heralded the rain. It did not introduce itself slowly: as soon as the first flash of lightning lit the horizon, it began to absolutely pour. It came flowing down over the eaves and splashed onto his floor, coursing already through the gutters and rushing down the rain chains. He sat straight up, staring startled through the open window as the curtains fluttered, stilled, became soaked.

Ichigo rose slowly and breathed in the air, cleaner now, drenched. As he shut the window an urge struck him, no stronger than the others - perhaps linked.

It was imperative at that moment, and he could feel it at the core of his being, a need filtered through confusion and ignorance, but no less pressing than the instinct to breathe. Hasty and trembling he tugged on the jeans on the floor, the thin t-shirt slung nearby, descended the stairs gingerly. Slipping out of the front door had his heart pounding; if he were to be caught, he thought, he would be incapable of explaining his intentions.

When he hit the street he started running. There was some energy in his calves that pulsed through him, strung him tightly, sang in his thighs and quickened his pulse to a pounding staccato.

He ran, directionless, sprinting at times, panting. Headlights passed by, blurry in the rain, and he ran the back of his hand over his eyes, bore his shoulder down against the downpour.

Where was he going? It was hard to say. He felt half-guided to that certain place at the center of town where so many questions had been born, where he had first felt that tightening and heat, where visits had left him restless and dreamy. And that place woke fury and shame, but it lured him back like a line tied through him, coiled up somewhere in his chest, his blood.

Ichigo reached the shop at some point and lingered in the rain, his clothes clinging heavily to him, outlining the contour of every nascent muscle and plane. When his panting subsided he sucked in a deep breath and ducked beneath the eaves, pounded on the glass. There was darkness inside and he wondered if anyone would hear; they slept upstairs, even the man himself. And somewhere in the violent knocking he was screaming, though the rain caught his voice and did away with it, washed it down the storm drains.

A dim light spilled down the stairs and there was the wavering of a shadow. Urahara descended them clumsily, moments out of sleep, wrapped in a robe. For a moment he stood and squinted, peering through the glass at his midnight visitor. When he recognized him he approached and opened up, raising an eyebrow.

"Late night, Kurosaki?"

Ichigo was still panting slightly from the exertion; his sweat mingled with the rain on his skin.

"Just out for a run," he grunted.

"You make it seem like I came to your front door at midnight with that frown," Urahara quipped, stepping aside to allow the boy access. Ichigo glanced about and entered, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Urahara shut and locked the doors behind him, then turned on the boy, hands tucked into his sleeves.

"So, what can I do for you, Kurosaki-kun?"

Ichigo was suddenly aware of how cold the inside of the shop was; it seemed neither the humidity nor the heat had found it. For long moments, the two stood in the cool semi-darkness as the rain pounded down outside. In the light of day, the shop always seemed so lively, all full of action and chatter - it made its present state seem almost eerie, as though the items in the bins were cemented in place and the dust on the shelves was inches thick.

"Could use some water," Ichigo said at length.

"By all means," Urahara gestured vaguely to the kitchen in the back.

Ichigo brushed past him with a shiver, slipping along the hall into the darkened room, feeling slightly unsure on the linoleum tiles. He fetched a glass and filled it at the sink, then leaned against the counter, attempting to collect his thoughts.

"I'm surprised your father let you out so late," Urahara's shadow suddenly darkened the doorway.

"He didn't," Ichigo admitted gruffly.

"Goodness, but won't he be worried in the morning?"

"Don't you think I'm old enough to go where I want when I want?" he snapped.

"With all due respect, Kurosaki-kun, you do still live under his roof..."

"I'll explain it to him later," Ichigo huffed.

"Uh-huh," the blond intoned, leaning against the door frame, "and when you do, what will you say? Only curious."

The boy was scrambling for an excuse when Urahara suddenly thought better of his question, and posed another.

"Something bothering you, Kurosaki-kun?"

Ichigo spun around as if to dump the remainder of the water into the sink, turning his back on Urahara.

"Yeah, I guess," and he placed his hands far apart on the counter, leaning heavily on it.

"Ah? Feel free to disclose in the utmost confidence."

Ichigo wasn't sure what all of those words meant, but he knew he had been asked for a confession, and something in him felt ready to burst.

"Dreams," he murmured.

"Nightmares?"

"Not exactly."

"Nightmares aren't uncommon for shinigami, just a fair warning." Urahara paused. "Well then, what sort of dreams?" But at that moment he was almost precisely sure what sort of dreams were keeping the boy from rest, and he suppressed a smirk.

"Strange ones," Ichigo admitted tightly, "can't ever remember all of them. They're just..."

"Kurosaki-kun came all this way to tell me about his naughty dreams?" And there was a hint of levity to his voice that suggested a chuckle and slightly disarmed the boy. Still he clutched the countertop and blushed furiously.

"No, you perverted old bastard! I just couldn't sleep!"

"Naa, quiet down, Kurosaki-kun; I assure you if you wake Yoruichi she'll come down those stairs stark naked, and she won't be happy."

"You and Yoruichi -" he glanced over his shoulder with a gasp.

He was rewarded with muffled laughter.

"No, no, Kurosaki-kun. Yoruichi-san sometimes uses the guest room is all. I tell her my home is not a love motel, but who listens to an old pervert?"

Ichigo turned away again with a disgusted huff.

"Ichigo." Urahara's tone had assumed a mild seriousness. "Wet dreams are entirely expected of a boy your age. Now is the joyful time in your life in which you begin to explore your sexuality and do your own laundry."

The boy felt he should have wheeled around and told the older man off, given him a real piece of his mind, let him know exactly where he could shove his advice. But the words, however flippant, struck a cord inside him, and he found he could not speak. Urahara watched his still back for long moments.

"With all those pretty girls you hang around, it's no wonder -"

"They're not about girls," Ichigo ground out, a coldness forming in him at the admission.

"That's not a problem either, Ichigo. I think you'll find yourself in good company."

Ichigo had expected ridicule, a couple of jokes, maybe a lewd comment - but not the honest tenderness in Urahara's voice. Every muscle in his body tensed as the older man's footsteps approached on the tile. In the quiet of the room they seemed unimaginably loud, and Ichigo could not fathom what he was doing -

There was a hand on his shoulder and he spun around, coming face-to-face with the blond. Fingertips came up to trace the curve of his smooth cheek and he shivered, trembled, felt windless like he was falling, god, he could almost feel the air rushing by -

Urahara kissed him.

In the brief moment during which their lips touched - chastely, barely a skim of softest flesh - Ichigo sensed the man's heat, his slightly spicy scent, even the moisture of his breath.

So he promptly jerked away, shoving the blond back with a harsh palm to the shoulder.

"What the hell! Just because I tell you I like - I like - well it doesn't mean you can just - do whatever you want!"

He was shocked that Urahara looked genuinely hurt.

"That wasn't...what I intended, Ichigo."

"Well then what..." the boy asked weakly, confusion bright in his blush and furrowed brow.

"Wet dreams, can't sleep, and you come to my house. The run should've taken enough out of you to put you to bed. I think I had every reason to assume."

And the truth was that he did, and that he had guessed right - and he knew it. What he hadn't exactly estimated was the amount of time it would take for Ichigo to understand his own motivations.

"I don't know how I got here," Ichigo breathed.

"That means your body brought you. Nature is very rarely wrong."

There was a long stretch of silence. Thunder rolled in the east and rain continued to crash urgently against the windowpanes. Ichigo glared past Urahara, unable to look at him for the shaking in his legs. The dim light spilling down the stairs was still the only illumination; he felt suddenly lost, very much in the dark...

"What do you want to do?" he whispered. Urahara grinned almost cryptically; had it not been for the promise of tenderness in his eyes, Ichigo imagined he would have fled. The blond's fingers came up to the boy's collar bone, still well-defined beneath his soaked t-shirt.

"Let's...get you out of these wet clothes."

He turned and left the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the boy was following. Ichigo stumbled away from the counter, entirely unsure as to whether or not his legs would support him - the stairs seemed practically insurmountable, but he sprinted up, heart pounding. Urahara's door stood open, and the mere image was enough to wring another shudder out of his tightened shoulders.

Inside the room, only the bathroom light was on, a testament to the blond's earlier rush.

Wordlessly, the two drew close again, a magnetism Ichigo could not explain. Urahara brought his hands up over the flat plane of the boy's stomach, barely brushing his firm sides, the ridges of his ribs through his clinging t-shirt. Ichigo sucked in a shallow breath as his nipples tightened under the impossibly light touch, and Urahara's lips came down hot and wet on his neck.

"Oh..." he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut.

Urahara gently grasped the hem of the boy's shirt and peeled it away from him, leaving him quivering, lips parted, dumbstruck. He heard the heavy cloth hit the ground and it was only then he noticed that Urahara had untied the belt of his robe, leaving it open. When he glanced downward the center of the man's body was entirely revealed - the muscular plane of his chest, firm expanse of his abdomen - his half-hard sex.

Ichigo gasped and Urahara experimentally massaged his shoulders, sliding a hand around to card through his incredibly orange hair. He brought the boy - who seemed suddenly boneless - in for another kiss, this one deeper, more insistant; the blond's tongue explored and caressed, and Ichigo clutched his shoulders as if he were drowning.

The boy panted audibly as Urahara's fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, one hand undoing the clasp and zipper, the other spreading the material open. Ichigo was already fully erect, an aspect of his condition he had barely noticed under the cold cloth. As the blond gently eased his jeans down his narrow hips, he tensed, stumbled, grasped those broad shoulders fiercely for support.

"Here, baby. Let's get in bed."

He was distantly aware of Urahara moving him backward, bracing his shoulder and the small of his back as he lowered him into the sheets.

"Don't - call me baby -" Ichigo ground out, voice cracking.

"My apologies."

Urahara moved over the boy. Ichigo was aware of his strong arms causing depressions in the mattress beside his shoulders, and the knees on either side of his thighs. Oddly he felt no sensation of being trapped as he had, in his fantasies, expected - he felt warmer, a little less shy - safe?

He squeezed his eyes shut as those lips came to his hypersensitive nipples. He arched his chest into the sensation and it coursed through him, wringing a strained whine from his tightened throat. Uncertain fingers tangled in that mess of blond hair and Urahara purred approvingly, returning to the boy's lips for another kiss.

"You're free to touch me, Ichigo," he breathed into his ear, gently stroking a hand over his hair.

"I just...haven't..." he turned away, but Urahara gently urged him back to eye contact.

"Never before?"

"No," he grumbled.

"Nothing?"

"You deaf?"

"With anybody?"

"You dumb too?"

"Oh, Ichigo..." he gazed intently down at the boy who seemed dead set on avoiding the glance. A dark blush spread over his cheeks and his ears burned; Urahara slid his fingers through that soft hair again, fine and thick, scented with rain. He hadn't taken the time to reflect on the possibilities of the boy's sexual history - just assumed he had fooled around with some of his friends, or that one of those opportunists in sereitei had snatched him up.

"Ichigo, look at me." The boy grudgingly obeyed. "Are you sure you want this? Now? With me?"

"I..." his hands came up to experimentally stroke over the blond's firm pectorals, and he felt his heartbeat, strong and quick. "I...yeah, Urahara." And in his voice there was the slightest hint of pleading.

"Kid, this...won't be the best, but it'll always be the first. I don't want you regretting that further down the line." He paused. "And call me Kisuke."

"Kisuke...please? Y-you said nature is...you know...and the dreams..." his fingers slid along the contours of Urahara's sides, over the tight ridges of his muscles until they found his hips, and slid gingerly beneath him, just barely edging near his sex.

"Ah, Ichigo..." he moaned, tingling from the mere suggestion of the boy's fingers on him. He took to an elbow momentarily and dug around in his nightstand drawer; Ichigo looked on curiously until he withdrew a small bottle, at which point he blushed furiously and felt a surge of blood to his sex.

_Oh god._ The reality was suddenly very real. _Urahara - Kisuke is going to - be inside me._

He trembled as the man moved lower and lower, scattering kisses over his stomach and the soft stretch of flesh between his hips, before nuzzling against him and gently kissing the base of his sex. Ichigo arched and squeezed Urahara's shoulders, crying out sharply.

_Kid is gonna hair trigger. Best be careful._

Urahara smiled against him and easily coated his fingers in lube, trailing the tip down the seam of the boy's soft sac, over the smooth skin beneath, giving a fair suggestion of his destination. Ichigo panted and choked a broken moan, frustrated, sex pounding. When that long, careful finger pressed inside him, he tensed and panted, trying to adjust.

"Breathe deep, honey."

"Again with - ah! - the p-pet names!" but his muscles were impossibly tight and straining, he curled up into the sensation and speaking was quickly becoming impossible.

"Sorry, sorry..." he chuckled softly, pressing wet kisses to the base of the boy's arousal as a second finger joined the first, and then a third, eliciting a whine through clenched teeth.

"Hang on," he murmured, "it's gonna get better, I swear."

And as he moved back up to lick along the boy's collar bones and neck, all the way up his jawline where his breath in the delicate shell of his ear made him moan, he sought out that sweet place inside him that would make it all better.

When he found it - that little hub of pleasure, cluster of sensation - Ichigo's thighs jerked apart, joined by a ragged cry and quick, sharp bucks of his hips.

"Easy, easy," chided Urahara. Those long fingers slipped from the boy's virgin entrance, and the older man positioned his dripping sex there, incredibly hard and coated thickly with lubrication. He brought his hands up beneath the boy, forearms fitting perfectly beneath his shoulder blades, fingers wrapping about the rounded adolescent shoulders.

"Ichigo, don't hold your breath. Here, here" and he was pressing his lips to the boy's tongue slipping inside in a suggestion of things to come - "breathe with me."

Ichigo sucked in a deep breath on his cue and squeezed his eyes shut, and then the blond was pushing inside him, stretching him - and it burned and felt foreign and too full, and he was only slightly aware of fingers kneading his shoulders, lips on his jaw - tears in his lashes.

_Oh no. Not in front of him. God, anywhere else._

He brought his hand up over his eyes and shuddered - sobbed, maybe. It was just so much - the sensations, the nervousness, the desperation, the sheer spinning frenzy of it -

And then he was moving, some inexplicably perfect rhythm, and Ichigo slung his arms over that strong flexing back. Seconds later he realized Urahara had matched his breathing, maybe his heartbeat - the tempo was so right, even the pain had subsided to a degree, leaving Ichigo to deal with the sharp jolts of pleasure coursing through him.

Urahara was moaning steadily; each thrust into the boy was like the first press, the head of his cock was stroked constantly by the boy's tight heat. It may have been ethically questionable and the boy's displays of pain made his chest ache, but his hips were moving of their own accord and he could practically taste the strongest orgasm he'd had in years just edging at his consciousness, just teasing -

"Ah, Ichigo - fuck! You, oh - oh - you feel - so - good -"

At that moment the blond angled himself just perfectly, and the fit pushed up against that secret place so sensitive it had the virgin bucking, crying out, thrusting up against his newfound lover with every ounce of strength in his abdomen, hips, calves pressing furiously into those firm sides -

"Oh - Kisuke!"

The cry was loud and harsh and slightly broken; Ichigo's seed spilled out over his stomach as Urahara hilted in him, and then there was warmth spreading deep inside him, and, as he arrived back at his senses, he was tingling and gasping at the sound of Urahara moaning lightly in his ear.

"Good god, Ichigo," the blond sighed as he collapsed next to the boy, spreading a hand out over his chest to feel the last forceful beats of his heart as they subsided to a softer pattern.

Ichigo allowed his eyes to drift shut as he caught his breath, dragging his hand across his brow to clear away the sweat there.

"How do you feel?"

A warm cloth was gently mopping up the fluid spread over his stomach.

"Um...full, and, ah, good..."

Urahara chuckled lightly at that, supposing the boy too exhausted to rebuke him. Ichigo ignored the blond's snicker and found that he very much wanted to touch him, though he could hardly find the energy or figure how to go about it.

But again the older man sensed his restlessness and took it upon himself to alleviate it, gathering the boy into his arms and kissing his forehead. Moments later he sat up slightly to bring the covers over them, and Ichigo turned, nestling his back against his strong chest.

And that night there were no dreams.

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The next morning, Yoruichi wandered down the stairs reasonably dressed, seeking out the source of delicious aromas of coffee and pankcakes.

She yawned and plopped down on a cushion, rolling her shoulders.

"What the hell was all that racket last night?"

Urahara turned, coffee in hand.

"The rain storm or the knocking?"

"I was really wondering about the obnoxiously loud fucking."

"Well, I suppose you were probably hearing me fuck."

"Sharp detective work here. Get me some coffee, will ya?"

Urahara joined her at the table with a second mug, creamed and sugared to her liking. She breathed over the top to brush the steam away, and took a sip, glancing at him over the rim.

"You've become quite the chickenhawk in your old age," she quipped.

"Kid showed up at the door. What am I supposed to do? Turn him around and send him home?"

She reclined on her hands and gazed knowingly at him, nodding to herself after another swig of coffee.

"Busted his cherry?"

Urahara wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Classy way of putting it."

"You wouldn't have done that if you didn't - well, you know."

"That's true." He glanced up at the window and found the sky pleasantly clear, though the trees still glistened from the night's storm.

"You think he knows?"

"I think he'll figure it out," Urahara sighed at length.

"I dunno. He's practically brain dead."

"You know, I think...after last night, he'll be hanging around more often."

Yoruichi snorted into her mug. "Confident bastard, aren't you?"

"Somehow I think he knows. And if he doesn't, well."

"Well?"

"I'll just have to tell him sometime."

"Catch him in the afterglow when he's off his guard," she suggested.

"Maybe."

And there was the soft sound of feet on the stairs, and Urahara suddenly suspected he might be telling him sooner rather than later that he loved him.

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**Much longer than usual, jeez! Thanks for the read and please review.**


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